The morning was torrential; the downpour kept the streets empty save for the occasional roadster, its wipers working overtime. I was working overtime, too. Making fifty bucks a day plus expenses, I was more than happy to search for the so-called "invisible man."
I was never much for ghost stories, but this man was legend in the underbelly of my city. The rumors about the man were rich. Rich enough to drown in, too rich to be true. Except for the one fact I'd managed to root out in this gig, the one thing I had suspected all along: there was not a man could rightly say to know a damn thing about the guy. If I ever did find him, I wondered if there'd be enough tobacco left in the world to build the celebratory cigar.
I was just lighting up again when a man opened the door to my office and entered. I noticed a lot of things then, like the crisp new suit that disguised the scrappy frame, or thick glasses of a nearsighted man, but the thing I noticed most was the six-shooter tucked neatly under his jacket. I don't know what I was thinking leaving my own gun in her drawer. Maybe I was finally getting used to having Felicity around; she would have seen the piece as well as I, and raised a fuss before he ever touched my door.
"I heard you were looking for me," he said, entering further and gesturing for a cigarette. The friendly gesture didn't put me any more at ease, but I obliged all the same.
"Mr. Ricard is looking for you," I said as I gave him a light. "I'm just taking the money. Usually, when a man takes such pains to conceal himself, this office is the last place he'll show up. You've got a strange manner about you, Mr, ah..."
The invisible man took a long draw before he answered. "Let's leave that be for now, shall we. I have something of a different nature to discuss today…"